


dreaming when the skies are blue (when they're gray)

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Established Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, i tried my best but can't get it all probably, this is... a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: “I’m going to Britain,” Danton says. "They want more fighting men in Europe."(it will be over three years until they see each other again.)





	dreaming when the skies are blue (when they're gray)

**Author's Note:**

> so uh. read the end notes for spoilery warnings. there is obviously tenderness here, but it is above all else a war story, so. yeah.
> 
> okay i did SO much fucking research for this thing. i'm going to post some screenshots from my search history on my twitter, because, like. it's ridiculous. bringing me back to grade ten with this one.
> 
> also, this is for a prompt fill which i used as an excuse to finally write a WWI au. the prompt was 55. Finding old photographs you’d forgotten about from [this](https://heir-to-the-diamond-throne.tumblr.com/post/151164415366/64-sensory-prompts) list.
> 
> danton calls sean "sweetheart" which is really the most important thing here
> 
> anyway, "their" song which i mention a lot is "let me call you sweetheart" by the peerless quartet. so. listen to that on repeat. it's really. really their vibe. that's also the titular song.

_ Boston, April 1915 _

“I’m going to Britain,” Danton says. His voice is quiet and he isn’t quite looking at Sean. 

Sean had been talking about one of the men from the factory who had quit today, but he falls silent as soon as Danton interrupts. He’s not quite sure that he heard right.

“What?” He laughs nervously, reaching for his water glass. His hand is trembling, just a bit. He’s not sure why, there’s nothing to be—

“I’m going to Britain,” Danton repeats. This time, he looks Sean directly in the eyes. Sean knows him better than anyone and he can tell that behind Danton’s blank exterior, Danton is scared. “They want more fighting men in Europe, and, well.” Danton hooks his thumb under the silver chain that he wears around his neck and pulls his tags out from under his shirt.

Sean can barely stand to look at them.

“When do you leave?” he whispers. He sets his glass back down. He’s afraid he’s going to drop it if he doesn’t. 

“Tuesday,” Danton says. He tucks his tags away and exhales. He tries to smile. “I’ll be alright, Sean.”

“That’s three days,” Sean says, forcing himself to take deep breaths. “Three days, and you’re—what if you’re not?” Danton blinks at him, confused. “What if you’re not alright? What if you don’t come back?” 

Everyone has heard about what happened at Ypres. The image of Danton, burned and blistered from poison gas rises in his mind and sticks there. His breathing hitches and he buries his face in his hands.

“Sean,” Danton says, and his chair scrapes over the floor as he gets up, rounding the table to crouch in front of Sean. He takes Sean’s hands, presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Sweetheart,” Danton says softly, “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to go.” 

“You could stay,” Sean tries. “You could—I don’t know, but you  _ could.” _ He knows he couldn’t. He just wishes—“I don’t want you to go,” Sean says and his voice breaks. 

“I’ll write you every week,” Danton says, cupping Sean’s cheeks in his warm hands. “I promise.” 

“How are you going to explain writing love poetry to a man when your commanding officers ask?” Sean says, trying to lighten the mood.

Danton barks a laugh, weak and watery. 

“Maybe I’ll tell them I’ve got a lady waiting for me back in Boston,” he says. “Most beautiful you’ve ever seen, and sweet as anything.” He smiles his earnest smile at Sean, tempting him to reach down and touch his face gently.

“Aw, Danny,” Sean mumbles, running his fingers through Danton’s hair. He’s not sure what else there is to say.

“Sit here a minute,” Danton says, standing up suddenly. “Close your eyes.” Sean looks up at him uncertainly. “Trust me?” 

Sean nods and closes his eyes. He can hear Danton moving around, but he’s obviously making an effort to be quiet because Sean has no idea what he could possibly be—

_ I am dreaming, dear, of you, _ sings a male voice. Sean’s breath catches. 

“You can look now,” Danton says. When Sean opens his eyes, Danton is standing beside the gramophone while  _ their song _ plays. Danton holds his hand out, smiling tentatively. “May I have this dance?” he asks.

Sean goes to him and takes his hand, letting Danton lead. He’s no good at dancing, anyway. By the time the song trails off, leaving only the soft crackle of the record as it spins around and around with no one to stop it, they’ve given up on dancing and stand in the middle of the room with their arms wrapped tightly around each other.

“I love you,” Sean breathes, pressing his lips to Danton’s hair. 

“I love you,” Danton says, shaky, and Sean can feel dampness as Danton turns his face into his neck. 

Sean makes love to him that night, slow and gentle under the blankets, and he kisses Danton’s cheeks when the tears in his eyes spill over. Danton curls a hand around his neck and kisses him, after, then stumbles out of bed and to the bathroom. Sean hears the sound of running water and he rolls over to study their room. 

There are a few photographs, an old painting that Danton’s sister had gifted him years ago, a picture frame on the nightstand with a photograph of Sean’s family. Sean picks up the frame and opens the back. As well as the photograph of his family, there’s a smaller photograph of him tucked in behind that his mother had insisted he keep. 

It’s nothing special, just him looking beyond the camera with a solemn expression on his face.

Sean glances towards the bathroom door, back at his photograph, then he leans over to take his Bible out of the nightstand drawer. He tucks his photograph between the last page and the back cover, then closes the book and puts it on Danton’s pillow. 

Danton raises an eyebrow when he sees it. He picks it up and runs a thumb along the spine.

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“I want you to have it,” Sean says. He pulls Danton down to lie beside him. “I want you to keep it as your reminder to come back to me.” 

Danton smiles, setting the book aside and shifting closer to Sean. He kisses him, stroking a hand down the side of his face.

“I don’t need a reminder for that, sweetheart,” Danton says. “I’ll always come back to you.” 

“Germans better watch out,” Sean says weakly. He hugs Danton to him and pushes his face into his chest. “Just—Danny?”

“Mmhm?” Danton runs his fingers through Sean’s hair soothingly.

“Please don’t be a hero.” Sean knows what happens to heroes in war. 

Danton’s fingers pause in his hair. Sean listens to his heartbeat, trying to memorize its rhythm. 

“Sean,” Danton says, his tone cautious. 

“Promise me you’ll stay alive,” Sean says, finally propping himself up to look at Danton properly.

“I—I’ll do my best.” 

It’s not the promise Sean wants to hear, but he knows it’s the best Danton will give him. 

_ Somme River Valley, September 1916 _

_ Sean,  _ Danton writes,  _ I hope this letter finds you in good health. To answer a question from your last letter, I do not know when I will come home. I cannot say much, but fighting remains intense here in France.  _ Danton hesitates, tapping his pen against his lower lip.  _ I have made friends in the Division, though I hoped not to. Jake, from Edmonton, saved my life at Sorrel. He’s a good man. You would like him. Sergeant Bergeron is from the 22nd battalion, because he is from Quebec, and he showed me how to spot mines in the mud. Corporal Marchand is from the 25th battalion, but he likes to wander the trenches when we are not fighting. His skill with a rifle makes me glad I am not a German.  _

Danton studies the note. It’s not much, but there’s no time for long letters like there were when he’d been posted in Britain. Britain hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant place, but it was infinitely better than the mud and barbed wire of the Front. 

He considers how to end the letter. He obviously cannot send his love, but he wants to tell Sean anyway. Softly, to himself, he hums the first few notes of their song. 

_ Danton,  _ he signs.  _ P.S. Dreaming when skies are blue again. _

He folds the letter and tucks it into an envelope, then picks his way through the muck to find the crate where all the men pile their letters. 

Mud squishes behind him and he turns to see Jake, a thin woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It’s damp, probably, but so is everything. Danton can’t remember what dry clothes feel like. 

“Heinen,” Jake says.

“DeBrusk,” Danton answers. He hitches his rifle higher over his shoulder and the two of them wander down the trench together. It’s mostly quiet today, but tomorrow is a big day. 

Danton doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

“How are you feeling?” Jake asks. He sits down on a pile of wooden planks fashioned into a crude bench, patting the space beside him until Danton sits as well. 

“I don’t know,” Danton says. He sighs. “Nervous, I suppose. I hate the waiting.” 

“I’m scared,” Jake admits. Drawing his knees to his chest, he casts a worried look at Danton like he’s not sure if Danton will judge him for it. 

Danton bumps their shoulders together. They’re not in the same battalion, but they’re never far from each other on the field. They’ve got each other’s backs. 

“Hey, this might sound stupid,” Jake says hesitantly, “but you’ve got a Bible, right?” 

Danton touches a hand to his chest. Sean’s pocket Bible has rested over his heart for months now, but he has barely had time to read past the Gospel of John.

“Yes,” he says. “Did you want to borrow it?”

“Oh, no,” Jake says. He blushes a little bit. “Could you—would you read me some? My mother always read it to me when I was a boy, so, um.” He looks embarrassed. “It’s alright if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly, assuming Danton’s silence means he won’t.

“I’ll read some,” Danton says quickly. He smiles, reassuring, and opens to the last page he folded down. “Does it matter where I start?” 

Jake shakes his head, leaning back against the wood and closing his eyes.

Danton doesn’t think he has a great voice for this kind of thing, but Jake doesn’t seem to mind. By the time he’s read so much that his mouth is dry from speaking so much, Jake is smiling a relieved sort of smile and opening his eyes.

“Thanks, Danton,” he says softly. “Do you mind if I—”

“Of course,” Danton says, and hands him the Bible. Normally he wouldn’t hand out his last piece of Sean so abruptly, but Jake is his best friend out here. He sort of watches Jake flip through the Bible, pausing occasionally to read a passage before moving on, from Matthew to Revelation. 

Jake turns the last page and a scrap of paper flutters out from the pages and to the ground. He catches it before it lands in the mud, looking at it curiously.

“What is it?” Danton asks. 

“It’s a photograph,” Jake says, passing it over. 

It’s  _ Sean. _ Danton’s breath catches in his chest. Unable to help himself, he reaches up and brushes his fingertips across the image, wishing he could touch Sean properly. 

“Oh,” Jake says. 

Danton tenses, realizing how foolish that was. 

“It’s not,” Danton starts, not sure how he can finish that with a believable lie. 

“Hey,” Jake says firmly. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out a locket, attached to the same chain as his tags. He flips the clasp and leans forward to show Danton.

Inside, there’s a small photograph of a young man with mussed hair and a round face. He isn’t smiling, but there’s something about his face that makes it seem like he’s about to break into a grin any second. “His name is Charlie,” Jake tells him quietly. He snaps the locket shut and puts it away.

“He’s Sean,” Danton says finally. His heart is racing in his throat and he exhales explosively when Jake slings an arm over his shoulders and shakes him a little. 

“Maybe when we’re home again, we should all go out for a celebration,” Jake says, grinning. There’s relief in his eyes.

“As long as you don’t mind coming to Boston for it,” Danton says. He looks back down at the photograph in his hands, then takes the Bible and tucks it back into the cover. He slips the book back into his pocket. “Try to get some sleep,” he tells Jake. 

“You too,” Jake says. 

Danton gets up, going back to join his battalion. He looks back once. Jake is curled up on his side, his eyes closed. The glint of metal catches Danton’s eye where Jake has his hand closed around his chain, his fist pressed to his mouth. 

Danton turns away. Every man needs his rest tonight.

The battle for Courcelette begins before half-past six in the morning. 

Danton has been in his share of battles in the months he’s been in France. He’s seen the poison gas, the artillery, the machine guns. He’s watched men he knows die in gruesome ways he never could have imagined.

Courcelette is worse.

The sky is black with smoke, cut through with the roar of a plane’s engine. The artillery is deafening and Danton’s ears ring with it as he tries to keep pace with the tank. His gun is heavy in his hands.

There’s a stink in the air, that horribly familiar reek of burned men and metal.

Following a shouted order, he drops to his belly and squirms under the barbed wire. It scrapes against his helmet.

Danton looks around wildly, the rest of his battalion around him with frightened eyes and pale faces. The only relief comes from knowing that the Germans are still hiding in their trenches.

Unfortunately, they’re walking right to them.

Danton is still a few metres away from the trench when the real fighting starts. He can hear men screaming, gunshots, and he wonders for a desperate instant if he could turn his back and desert, then he’s standing at the brink.

He fights.

Of course he fights. There’s nothing else he can do.

In the chaos of battle, it’s harder to keep to his battalion and he ends up near Jake, staggering around dead and wounded men.

“Keep going!” Jake has to scream to be heard over the incessant noise of artillery. He jerks his head in the direction of the town, pillars of smoke rising from rooftops. “We have to take th—” His voice cuts off. 

There’s a man in a German uniform a few paces behind him, his gun raised. Danton shoots him, watches him fall back into his trench, then looks at Jake.

Jake’s hand is at his chest, his glove covered in something dark and wet.  _ Blood.  _ His skin is pale beneath the mud.

Danton grabs him before he can fall, half-carries him to a shallow ditch behind a blasted tree. There’s some shelter here, but not much. Danton needs to get him back to the trenches, he needs—

“Medic!” Danton yells, but nobody can hear him. He looks back down at Jake. 

“Dan,” Jake wheezes. He fumbles at his throat, his bloodied hands slipping over his skin. “Take—please.” He coughs weakly, blood bubbling at his lips. He’s finally able to take the locket in his hand, holding it out to Danton.

“No,” Danton says, “no, that’s yours. You have to keep it to—to—” His voice breaks. 

“Please,” Jake says again. There’s an urgency in his eyes, but it’s fading. “You have to, for me. For him.” 

Danton squeezes his eyes shut against the tears threatening to fall and he takes the locket, holding it carefully in his palm. 

“I’ll find him for you,” Danton says. “I’ll tell him—I’ll tell him you never stopped thinking about him.” 

“New York. Thank you,” Jake whispers. He fumbles for Danton’s hand and Danton holds on, wanting to give Jake an anchor. “Show—show me?” 

Using his free hand, Danton opens the locket and holds it in front of Jake so he can see it. Jake sighs softly, lifting his other hand towards the locket. He leaves a bloody smear across the metal edge before his arm becomes too weak and his hand falls down.

“Read to me?” Jake’s voice is too quiet.

Danton swallows hard. His throat is dry and his mouth tastes of ash. He thinks hard, trying to remember any passage he can. 

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Danton recites, his voice unsteady, “I will fear no evil—” His voice cracks as he sees the last of the light fade from Jake’s eyes. “For you are with me,” he manages, then he bows over Jake’s body and weeps.

The days that follow are a blur. 

Danton is vaguely aware of taking the town, though it feels nothing like a victory. The cost to the Germans is great, but the toll on the Allied forces is enormous. 

Bergeron seems to be stumbling around like he’s lost somewhere on that battlefield, his eyes haunted and his face drawn. Someone tells Danton that the eight hundred men of the French-Canadian battalion who had been in the first wave of attacks had been decimated. 

“Barely a hundred of ‘em left now.” The man looks sympathetic. “Would’ve been fewer if not for him, I ‘spect.”

Danton nods wordlessly and goes back to his rations. He’s barely spoken since that first day, save to answer in roll call.

He doesn’t want to risk making any more friends.

_ Massachusetts, June 1917 _

Sean is afraid.

In his left hand, he holds Danton’s latest letter. The writing on it is smudged from travel, rain and Danton’s own hands smearing the ink, but Sean savors every word.

In his right hand, Sean holds his draft notice. Three digits on a scrap of paper, pulled from a bowl by pure chance.

His hands are shaking.

He crumples the scrap of paper and places it on the table in front of him, then spreads Danton’s letter out again to read it.

_ Sean,  _ it goes,  _ I write to you now from Vimy Ridge. I expect you have heard of our victory here. The commanders are already saying this battle will become a legend for us. Thousands dead from the Corps. Even when we defeat the Germans in battle, it does not feel like we have won. -Danton _

There is no post-script. 

Sean is somewhat surprised that there is no mention of America joining the war, but while news travels fast in the trenches, first it has to get there. If Danton wrote this letter after the victory at Vimy, only a week had passed since Wilson announced that the United States are going to war. Surely his next letter will mention it.

Doubt rises in Sean’s mind. Ever since the fall, Danton’s letters have been few and far between, and the ones that Sean does receive are short and to the point. Sean doesn’t mind. Even if the letters aren’t sweet and sappy poetry like he had joked about that last night together, at least it’s something. At least they tell him that Danton is alive, that he’s unhurt.

Standing up, Sean leaves both papers on the table and walks through the apartment. He feels almost like a ghost now, pacing through the too-quiet rooms like a shade of what he used to be. 

In the kitchen— _ Danton laughing, flicking water and soap at Sean while they try to do the dishes. Sean whipping the towel at him, yelling at him to stop, but it’s no use. He’s grinning too hard to be properly threatening. _

The bathroom— _ Danton throwing up, knuckles white around the edge of the toilet. Sean sits beside him and rubs his back until he’s done. Toilet flushed, Danton slumps against Sean’s side and rests his head on his shoulder. He mumbles a quiet  _ thanks _ into the silence of the room, and Sean tangles their fingers together and smiles. _

The living room— _ Danton holds out his hand for Sean. It’s snowing outside, but there’s a fire lit and Danton has put on some music. Sean gets up and takes his hand, and they dance together until they’re so tired that they fall asleep on the couch, pressed together so close that Sean isn’t sure where he ends and Danton begins.  _

The bedroom— _ Danton pulls Sean close to him, his smile barely visible in the dim light from the street. He presses kisses over Sean’s face, finishing with a sweet kiss to his lips, and they lie together under the thin blankets while rain lashes at the window. Danton moves closer and the sound of the rain fades away. _

Sean stands in the doorway to their bedroom. He hasn’t slept here since Danton left. The blankets are still rumpled, the pillow still bearing the indentation where Danton’s head rested. 

It feels like something forbidden, going into the room after so long avoiding it. Sean brushes his fingers lightly over Danton’s pillow, imagining he can still feel the warmth, that Danton will lean around the edge of the doorway and tell him that it’s time for breakfast.

It’s been much too long without him to start indulging in such foolish fantasy. 

Sean falls asleep there, his arm outstretched to Danton’s side of the bed.

In the morning, he pens a letter to Danton and packs up a small bag, folds up a small photograph of Danton that he slides into the lining of his jacket, and is on a bus to the training camp before lunchtime.

It’s only that night, lying in an uncomfortable cot, that Sean realizes he won’t be able to receive any letters from Danton. He doesn’t know where he’s going. 

Sean squeezes his eyes shut against the encroaching darkness, tears stinging his eyes. It has been a long time since that overwhelming grief that simmers in his heart has emerged, but tonight Sean buries his face in his thin pillow and cries.

_ France, September 1918 _

_ It’s nearly over.  _ That’s what everyone keeps saying, in the moments of rest between fighting. Those moments are more fleeting with every metre of ground they take from the Germans as they chase them back east. 

Danton is numb to his exhaustion, to his aches and pains. All he knows is the weight of his gun, the barrel of his rifle, the men who stand in front of it. 

_ Over.  _ Danton doesn’t think it will ever be over. How can the world go back to the way it used to be after this? How can these men unknow what they’ve seen? What they’ve done? 

It’s all he can think about. Now that Sean is in Europe, and God knows if he’s fighting or if—if he’s rotting in the mud like the hundreds of thousands of men who came before him. If Sean has seen the things Danton has seen. 

Danton hopes he hasn’t. He feels angry, sometimes, that the Allies hadn't been able to finish the war sooner. Sean deserves to be  _ safe, _ to be  _ home. _ Danton couldn’t even keep him safe like he was supposed to.

He hasn’t thought about dying in a while now. Not seriously, anyway. He did most of that back in ‘15, after his first battle when the smoke settled and he looked at the ruin around him for the first time. It’s been years since then. By now, he’s had so many close shaves that he doesn’t bother worrying about it.

_ It happens or it doesn’t,  _ someone told him once. He can’t remember who. Marchand, probably, before he got half his leg blown off. 

Today is just like any other battle day, Danton crawling through the mud, jumping over blockades, dropping to a knee to aim and fire. 

The Germans are retreating when a last barrage of machine gun fire sweeps over Danton’s battalion.

It feels like a punch in the chest when the bullet hits him. Dizzily, he remembers Jake. He hadn’t known Jake long, really, but Jake was the only real friend Danton has had out here. Danton feels the locket swing against his collarbone and wonders if he can take it off and hide it in the mud before he dies. 

He sits down hard, lifting a hand to his chest. A few men fall dead, but Danton just stares at his hand--his  _ dry _ hand. He’s not bleeding.

Well.

He’s not bleeding  _ there. _

Dimly, he hears someone shouting for the medic, feels someone’s hands on him as he’s lifted onto a stretcher. 

“You’re going to be alright, Private,” he hears someone say to him, then his vision fades away and he drifts off to sleep. 

_ Britain, November 1918 _

“The Canadians are just through there, Private,” says the nurse. She’s led Sean through the winding halls of the hospital, past men with wounds ranging from missing limbs to chemical burns to shrapnel scars.

Every injury he sees scares him more. What if that happened to Danton, too? 

_ He’s alive,  _ Sean tells himself firmly.  _ That’s enough. _

Truth be told, Sean doesn’t know what happened to Danton. He hasn’t heard from him in a year, not since he was shipped off to Europe. 

After the armistice, Sean checked every record he could, spoke with every officer, and finally found his way to Britain. Danton’s name was recorded as being sent away for  _ recovery and rehabilitation, _ just about the vaguest possible description. 

The nurse ushers him through a set of large doors and into a vast space filled with cots. A few nurses bustle around, one of them holding a pile of sheets, but they are far outnumbered by the Canadian soldiers. 

The men here don’t seem too badly injured, though many of them are bandaged or wear casts. This must be where those with minor or mostly recovered wounds are sent before being discharged. 

Sean shuffles into the room hesitantly. 

One man brushes past him and Sean catches his arm, flinching back at the wild look in the man’s eyes as he turns. Sean lets go of him, mumbling an apology.

“You’re alright,” the man says, shaking himself off. He has bandages tied around his head. “We’re all on edge.” He eyes Sean’s dog tags. “You would know, eh?” 

“Private Kuraly,” Sean says. “United States, One-Forty-Sixth.”

“Corporal Richards, Fifty-Second. You looking for someone?” 

“My—my friend,” Sean says. “Second Division, Twenty-Ninth. Danton Heinen.”

“Heinen,” Richards mutters. He brightens. “Blond? Bad knee? Mopey? Kind of mean?”

Sean blinks. That doesn’t sound like Danton at all. 

“Maybe,” Sean says. “I—” 

“He’s over here.” Richards doesn’t wait for him to finish, instead leading him across the room to a cot in the corner. 

The occupant is curled under the blanket, facing the wall. Richards disappears.

“Danton?” Sean calls softly. 

The man in the bed twitches and rolls over slowly, stiffly. It  _ is _ Danton.

“Sean,” he whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, like he thinks he might be imagining Sean’s presence.

Sean goes to him, kneeling beside the bed and taking his hands. 

“It’s me,” he says, his voice a little choked. “It’s me, I’m here.”

Danton touches his face, his hair. His lips quirk in a poor mockery of a smile, like the expression is unfamiliar. 

“I was so scared,” Danton says. “When I heard you were coming, I—” His voice breaks and he stares over Sean’s shoulder. There’s something in his eyes that’s not quite  _ here, _ like he’s seeing something else in his memory.

“Danny,” Sean says softly, “it’s alright. We’re safe. We can go home.”

“Home,” Danton whispers. His eyes become a little more present, focusing on Sean’s face again. He swallows. “You saved my life, you know,” he says unexpectedly.

“Um.” What does  _ that _ mean? 

Danton leans over and pulls something out of the jacket hanging off his bed frame. It’s Sean’s Bible, looking a little worse for wear with the water damage and the mud stains, but—

Sean takes the book and amends the statement. A  _ lot _ worse for wear. 

There’s a bullet embedded in the book. Sean stares.

“The day I got injured,” Danton says, “I got shot in the chest. That book stopped the bullet from reaching my heart.” 

Sean’s heartbeat thrums in his ears.

“The only reason I carried it into battle with me was because I kept your photograph in it.” 

“Oh,” Sean says quietly. He looks down, blinking rapidly. “I missed you,” Sean says. “So much.” 

Danton sniffles a little bit.

“I missed you, too. I thought about you every day.” Danton closes his eyes. Some of the stress and exhaustion seems to melt away from him.

“When you’re better,” Sean whispers, “we can go home together. I got some money with a medal I won, we can go somewhere. If you want.”

“That sounds nice,” Danton murmurs. He already sounds half-asleep. “How about New York?”

Sean thinks that’s a strange suggestion, but he won’t argue. Instead, he rests his chin on the edge of the mattress, eyes on Danton’s face. He closes his eyes, casting his mind out for the tune, and hums their song.

Danton’s lips are curled into a soft smile by the time Sean finishes with a whispered,  _ “I’m in love with you.” _

**Author's Note:**

> warnings:
> 
> \- lots of mention of death, killing, dying etc
> 
> \- jake dies
> 
> \- bergy is implied to have ptsd after most of his battalion dies
> 
> \- danton implied to have ptsd and also gets shot in the knee (that's not really stated but it happened)
> 
> anyway this got way longer than i expected but still could've been longer. for example i was going to put an epilogue where they find charlie and give him the locket, but then i'd have been over 5k and, like, no.
> 
> [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)
> 
> also please follow my [twitter](https://twitter.com/symphony7inAmaj) because that's where i REALLY like to yell about my concepts. i will accept you if you request... please be my friend....
> 
> still here? cool. some history:
> 
> i tried my best to be accurate to history in the sense that danton, being from bc, would've been in the second division of the canadian corps which was formed in 1915 once there were enough men in britain to make a whole other division. he and jake would've been in the same infantry brigade, but different battalions. i'm not into this war history, so i'm not totally clear on what that means. a lot of this was bullshitting, so if you're a wwi nerd, please educate me. 
> 
> the battles mentioned are the battle for flers-courcelette, part of the somme offensive. lieutenant-colonel thomas-louis tremblay described it pretty well: "If hell is as bad as what I've seen at Courcelette, I would not want my worst enemy to go there." yikes. the battle for vimy ridge is not described in detail, but the entire corps was there. so. danton. finally the hundred days offensive, which was not heavily delved into but that last battle scene is part of the early push.
> 
> finally, bible stops bullet. if you haven't heard, it's a real thing that actually [happened](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4124620/Pocket-Bible-saved-life-WWI-soldier-German-bullet-embedded-just-50-pages-going-way-killing-him.html)


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